


The First Dance

by Jen



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Community: btvs_santa, F/M, Retcon, episode rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jen/pseuds/Jen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A "Becoming, Part II" episode rewrite in which Spike gets a little taste of Buffy's life and, in the process, a little taste of the girl herself. Spike's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyofthelog in btvs_santa 2009 on LJ](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ladyofthelog+in+btvs_santa+2009+on+LJ).



> **Title**: The First Dance  
> **Rating**: R  
> **Pairing**: None (but with perhaps the most embryonic seeds of Spuffy)  
> **Disclaimer**: I own nothing and make no profits from these scribblings. This sandbox belongs to Joss, Fox, and a bunch of other entities who are not me; I merely play here.   
> **Thanks**: rahirah, readerjane, and rynogeny were gracious enough to give this an advance read and came up with all manner of useful insights. All remaining wonkiness is mine alone.   
> **A/N**: The premise here is that the Dawn retcon resulted in a rather different set of interactions between Spike and Buffy in "Becoming, Part II." Some situations and bits of dialog borrowed from the episode; the rest is the product of my fevered brain. The asterisks represent scene breaks/dramatic pauses/commercial breaks. ;)

Spike had made some questionable calls in the past, but partnering up with a slayer to take on his lover and his grandsire was headed toward the number one position on the list with a bullet. Time was this was the kind of decision would result in being mustered out of the Order of Aurelius without even the opportunity for explanation, where "mustered out" was benign code for torture followed by fiery death; there was even a formal ritual that went along with it, because the old ones in the Order were just _that_ unholier-than-thou about their precious demon loyalty and honor.

But dammit, he'd never really gone in for the Order and its pretensions anyway. And, more importantly, he was desperate, with desperate times calling for desperate measures and all that rot. It rankled, though, to have intimates turn into adversaries and to be forced to turn to an enemy in the hopes of finding an ally, begrudging though she might be.

The slayer didn't trust him; that much was obvious. Couldn't say as he blamed her. After all, what kind of Big Bad would he be if he weren't giving a thought or two to whether he could get away with double-crossing her? And it wasn't as if he trusted her, either. Making a deal with a slayer was a bit like playing Russian roulette for a vampire, and he was hoping he didn't get caught with a shell in the chamber when he pulled the trigger on their deal.

The festival of mutual mistrust meant they were too busy eyeing each other uneasily to pay much attention to the approaching Jeep until it pulled up next to them in the driveway, interrupting their approach to Buffy's front door.

Buffy's mother stepped out of the vehicle and called her daughter's name sharply. Christ, he hoped the woman didn't have a damn axe on her this time. He didn't fancy getting another rap on the noggin at the moment, although it might have served to bring him to his senses as far as this throwing-in-his-lot-with-a-slayer business was concerned. "Where have you been?" she demanded as Buffy fidgeted by his side. "The police were here. I was so worried."

It was the sound of Jeep's passenger door opening that lifted his eyebrow, and then she appeared, long braids swinging as she jogged around the front of the vehicle to join the woman now looking at him with growing alarm.

"Who's that, Buffy?" asked Buffy's wide-eyed little sister—because she was clearly that; he could smell the family resemblance in her chemistry. She addressed Spike directly. "Who are you?"

Interesting. He'd almost forgotten the slayer had a kid sis, yet here she was in the flesh and blood, all big, round eyes and long, coltish limbs. And she was apparently a ballsy chit. Given the demeanor of the other two Summers women standing in front of him, it was little wonder where the pint-sized one got it.

He opened his mouth to reply, but Buffy's mother—Joyce, if he remembered correctly—cut him off with a sharp reprimand directed at her youngest daughter. "Dawn, get in the house. Now."

"No," Dawn responded stubbornly. Did she just stamp her foot? He didn't know little girls did that anymore. "If Buffy's in trouble, I want to hear about it." She turned to Spike again. "So, who are you?" she repeated.

"Friend of your sister's, Niblet." He met Buffy's withering glare, amended his response. "Well, not friend, exactly. More like an acquaintance."

"We're in a band together," Buffy interrupted.

He stared at her. _This_ was the girl's idea of a believable cover? Did she think her mother was completely daft?

Dawn scoffed and folded her arms across her chest. "Yeah, right. Have you heard Buffy sing? It's not pretty."

Spike smirked, then sobered at the sight of Buffy's face. Right, then. Time to play along. Avoid further antagonizing the thoroughly brassed-off slayer. "Actually, I handle the singing. Your sis here plays a mean, uh, triangle."

Joyce waved her hand. "Hello, parent here! Dawn, house." Dawn pouted, then flounced away in a huff, leaving waves of pre-teen indignation in her wake. "Buffy, terrible things have happened," Joyce continued. "What is going on?"

"Let's go inside, and we can talk." Buffy turned to Spike. "You, too. You can come in."

An invite into the slayer's house. Yeah, this night just couldn't get any more surreal, and they hadn't even gotten to the part where they teamed up to destroy her boyfriend/his Yoda yet.

His thoughts were interrupted by a yelp from the porch. Buffy sprinted to her sister, with him close on her heels, where they found a minion pinning Dawn's arms behind her back as he bent toward her neck in game-face.

Buffy ran up the stairs, grabbed the vampire, and pushed him away from her sister. Dawn fell forward into Spike's arms with a startled gasp. He directed her down the steps to Joyce and turned around to find another body falling toward him. He landed a series of blows to the vampire's face, and as the vamp staggered backward, Buffy thrust a stake into his back. Joyce stared as he crumbled into dust, and Dawn's eyes grew wide as saucers.

"One of Angel's boys." Spike tried to remember the minion's name. They tended to blend together. Hulking idiots, the lot of them. Much like their leader.

"Probably watching me." Buffy scanned the area for others lurking in the shadows. "Or you."

"Yeah." Just like the old bugger to be suspicious. "He won't get a chance to tattle on us now." Spike smiled tightly.

"Buffy, tell me what the hell is going on right this minute," Joyce demanded, shocked.

"What, your mum doesn't know?" Spike asked. How could the girl manage to keep it a secret? Must have perfected the art of leading a double life. He supposed he could relate, given his own recent stint with make-believe concerning the state of his now-healed injuries.

Buffy shook her head, glanced at her sister. "Mom, maybe now isn't—"

"No, Buffy, now _is_ the time. This has got to stop. A girl—" She looked at Dawn, uncertain about continuing, but then plunged ahead. "A girl _died_ tonight, and the police seem to think you know something about it or even had something to do with it. I need to know what's happening!"

Buffy worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she thought about her response. "The girl was a friend of mine, but I wasn't there when she was killed. I know what did it, though, because I've fought their kind before." Buffy drew a steadying breath. "Mom, I'm a vampire slayer."

"Cool," Dawn breathed.

*

Joyce's expression was equal parts dismay and irritation. "No, Buffy, you are not a vampire slayer." She made it sound as though the concept was too ludicrous to fathom, and Spike marveled that she resisted the urge to make air quotes around the term, as she so clearly yearned to. "I don't know if you think this is some kind of a game or a joke, but it is seriously not funny."

"No kidding." Buffy's icy retort was accompanied by the appearance of two bright pink spots in her cheeks, and Spike thought he could actually hear her blood rushing, even with the distance between them.

"I knew it," Dawn broke in excitedly. "This totally explains all of the holy water and the stakes and crosses you have, right? You use that stuff to fight vampires?"

"Hey, how do you know about—" Buffy's eyes narrowed. "You've been in my room again, haven't you? I've told you to stay out of my stuff."

"While this domestic drama is riveting, Slayer, the clock's ticking," Spike interrupted. "No time for this now."

Dawn examined him closely. "You're a vampire, aren't you?" She looked thoughtful. "So, earlier, when you called me 'Niblet,' you were kinda thinking of… Oh, like, actual nibbling? On my neck or something?" She made a face. "That's so totally gross."

"Matter of opinion, pet."

"You?" Buffy said to Spike. "_Really_ not helping here."

He merely raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"No, this isn't real, Buffy. _Vampires_ aren't real."

Buffy looked at her mother in disbelief. "Did you just see that?" She gestured at the dust on the porch steps. "What do you call what just happened here?"

"I don't know how to explain that, but that man seemed terribly disturbed. Maybe he was on drugs?" She directed her attention to Spike. "Is that what you are? A drug dealer?" She wheeled on Buffy. "You brought a drug dealer to our house, and you nearly got your little sister killed!"

"I'm actually not a—"

"He's not a drug dealer!" Buffy exploded. "And since when do drug dealers spontaneously combust, Mom? Spike is a vampire who just so happens to be trying to help me save the world, okay?"

"A good vampire?" Dawn offered helpfully.

"No, _not_ a good vampire." Spike grimaced. Great, he thought. You make one unconventional alliance and suddenly everyone thinks you're a turn-coat. A soul-having, Slayer-whipped pillock. No bloody way he was on the road to becoming Angel, the sequel.

"Definitely not a good vampire," Buffy agreed, and Spike nodded curtly in thanks. "But he is a vampire, Mom. Wake up!" Her sharp tone indicated frustration. "What do you think has been going on with me for the last two years? How many times have you washed blood out of my clothes? No one's _that_ accident prone!"

Joyce shook her head, and the image of one of those sports bobbleheads sprang to Spike's mind. "Buffy, this is insane," she said. "Come inside. We'll call the police and maybe a doctor, and we'll sit down calmly and get this figured out."

Buffy heaved a sigh, and Spike joined her. The woman was clearly Queen of Denial. But that was humans for you. Always seeing what they wanted and ignoring all else that didn't fit into their tidy versions of reality.

"It's not insane, Mom! It's my life, and I'd love to call somebody to help me, but you know what? There _isn't_ anyone else who can do what I do. Spike is the only one who can help me, and we don't have time to make you understand all of this right now."

"You want to leave with _him_?" Joyce's sounded incredulous. She turned to Spike. "I finally figured out why you look so familiar. Parent-Teacher Night, at the high school, that was you, right? Only your face was different, like that man who grabbed Dawn." She faced Buffy. "I'm just supposed to let you go with this…creature?" Joyce's lips tightened into a thin line. "No, Buffy. We are going inside now to decide how to deal with your problem."

"No." Buffy spoke slowly, as if dealing with someone impossibly thick, and Spike had a feeling they were reaching the duck-and-cover part of this showdown. "You and Dawn are going inside and locking the door and not letting anyone in. I am leaving because I have work to do. I have to save the world. Again."

When Joyce addressed her daughter again, it was with barely concealed fury. "Buffy, if you leave now, before we have a chance to work this out, do not bother coming back." Just as he suspected: ultimatum time. "I can't have you around your little sister, putting her in danger, until you get over this…_whatever_ this is."

Buffy ignored her mother, but Spike saw her swallow hard to bite off whatever retort or plea she was considering. To her sister she said, "I'm sorry, Dawnie. But I have to go."

Dawn nodded. She glanced at Spike. "Help her, 'kay?"

He nodded. "Do my best." As long as helping her was in his best interests, he'd make sure the slayer was safe as houses.

*

They were several minutes away from the house before he ventured to speak. The way Buffy's hands were still balled into tight little fists persuaded him that discussing what he'd witnessed was not the best of ideas. Not that helping her sort out her family troubles was high on his list of priorities anyway. He'd survived enough of Dru and Darla's fall-outs in the bad old days to know that getting between feuding female relatives was never a sound idea, and he imagined that was a good rule of thumb for the living and the undead alike.

He tried the all-business tack instead. "So where is it we're heading, Slayer?"

She kept her eyes focused on the sidewalk. "School library. Weapon."

"Got plenty of weapons at the mansion, pet. Can liberate whatever you need there."

She shook her head. "No, Kendra brought a sword, blessed by a knight who battled Acathla. Before." Her jaw tightened. "Kendra's dead. Did you know? Killed by your girlfriend."

Spike's eyes widened. "Dru bagged a slayer? Good for her."

Buffy looked disgusted. "You realize you're one more proud comment away from a punch in the face, right? And that's just if I'm feeling real generous. Do I look like I'm feeling real generous right now, Spike?"

He held up his hands again in a pose of surrender, and his smile disappeared. Why hadn't he heard this from Dru herself? "I can't believe Dru didn't come and tell me, straight off. No doubt she told Angel," he said bitterly. "Probably celebrated with him already,"

Buffy stopped. "Celebrated. Together? You mean they…." She trailed off.

"Yeah, they probably shagged each other's brains out to commemorate the day." Spike's expression darkened. "And he'll no doubt throw it in my face, the bastard. As usual."

"'As usual'," she repeated.

"Come on, now, Slayer. Surely this has occurred to you, that the two of them have been at it like rabbits ever since Angelus returned to his dear old self." He could see it on her face that she had considered the idea, but he imagined having her suspicions confirmed made it a little more real and a whole hell of a lot more painful. Well, at least he wasn't alone in his misery. That made for a rather interesting form of comfort.

She'd resumed walking again, a little more slowly but with even more grim determination than before. Damn, this girl was tough. What he knew of American high school girls, news like this about a cheating boyfriend would have ruined them, turned them into teary, pathetic messes, acting as if their worlds had just crashed around their ankles.

But not this girl. He had to give her a few points for stoicism, guessed it came in part from having to stave off the real ending of the world on an annual basis. That no doubt tended to have a rather marked effect on one's perspective.

He took a few loping strides to catch up with her.

"Just don't say anything else right now, Spike," she ground out. "We'll talk about a plan when we get to the high school."

She acted as though she half-expected her watcher to be there, all evidence to the contrary, ready to dole out advice. He figured he'd better disabuse her of that notion, remind her that they were on their own. "I'm not sure—"

She glared at him, and if looks could stake he was pretty sure he'd be dust. He decided his observations would keep until she was ready for them.

*

The door at the street entrance of the high school was locked, and just as he was about to suggest getting in through the open ground floor window he'd spied on their approach, she yanked on the handle until he heard an audible crack.

"Ah, so now we've come to the breaking and entering part of the evening, then. Lawlessness suits you, Slayer."

She silenced him with a look and stalked toward the library entrance, pushed open the door, and broke through the yellow caution tape positioned around the room.

Dru and the others had really done a number on the place. His senses tingled at the smell of blood close at hand, but he stifled the urge to slip into game-face, figured that would bring a swift conclusion to whatever rapprochement he was in the midst of achieving with the slayer.

He watched Buffy's eyes drift from the outline of a body on the floor to the objects sitting atop the table across from the circulation desk.

"What's all that?" he asked, tilting his head in the direction of her gaze. Looked like someone had been trying to work a little mojo before the raiding party's arrival. "An Orb of Thesulah, eh?"

"Maybe," she replied warily. "What do you know about them?"

"Enough to know that if you've got one it's because you and yours were trying to bring back Angel's soul. Right?" He sniffed, tucked his thumbs inside his belt buckle and threaded his fingers together. "Gotta have the curse, though, love, and that incantation was lost long ago. Even the Romany themselves have forgotten it."

"And just how exactly do you know that?"

"I made it my business to learn about Angel's 'condition.'" He studied her guarded expression. "Let me guess – you think you've found the curse?"

She shrugged, headed toward the table. "Doesn't matter now. The ritual didn't work, and there won't be a second chance for it now." She lifted up a duffle from the floor and rummaged around inside it before drawing out a sword.

"Miss Summers. Oh, and a guest. How inappropriate."

Spike turned to find a troll of a man surveying them with considerable interest.

"You do realize this is a crime scene?" the troll asked Buffy, a self-satisfied sneer on his face. "No, wait, I imagine you do, as you're the chief suspect of the crime in question." He considered Spike. "And you've decided to bring one of your hooligan friends here to brag about your open descent into juvenile delinquency?"

"Who's this wanker, then?" This fine human specimen was an example of what the slayer was always trying so desperately to protect? Spike couldn't imagine why the hell she bothered.

"Mr. Snyder," Buffy replied. "High school principal."

"Ah, so that's just fancy speak for 'useless tosser' then, right?" Maybe he'd flash this guy a hint of fang. Would be rather funny to see him piss himself.

Buffy gave him a tight, humorless smile. "Pretty much."

Snyder shifted and appeared momentarily uncertain. "We'll see if you think it's as funny when the police show up to question you about that." He pointed at the outline on the floor.

Buffy's shoulders tightened. "I didn't hurt that girl. The police are gonna figure that out, you know."

Snyder clasped his hands together. "In case you haven't noticed, the police in Sunnydale are _deeply_ stupid. If you had nothing to do with it—which, incidentally, seems highly unlikely to me—I imagine it'll take Sunnydale's finest quite a while to establish your innocence. Which means, of course, that you are far too dangerous to be allowed to desecrate these hallowed halls of learning." He inhaled deeply. "These are the moments you want to savor. You wish that time could stop so you could live them over and over again." The grin he gave her was positively malevolent. "You're expelled."

Jesus, the girl just couldn't catch a break. And Spike thought _he'd_ been having a rather aggressively bad time of it lately.

The least he could do was scare the shit out of this idiot for her. He needed a slayer at full strength to take on Angel, and he wasn't sure how many of these hits she could absorb. "How 'bout if I eat this one, love?" he asked. "Surely you wouldn't object." He tucked his tongue behind his teeth and smirked until the smile disappeared from Snyder's face.

Buffy had gone pale at Snyder's proclamation, but now she rallied a bit, pretending to consider his proposal. "Nah. Probably get stuck in your teeth, and we've got all that stuff to do, remember?"

Snyder took an involuntary step backward. "Eat? Teeth? What are you? Some kind of cannibals? You two have something to do with what happened to Flutie?"

Buffy walked toward Snyder, sword extended in front of her, but she directed her comments to Spike instead. "What do you think? Probably never got a single date in high school, right?"

"Couldn't get laid if his life depended on it," Spike agreed, following her. He leaned toward Snyder on his way to the door, watched the principal shrink back, and grinned.

And they said high school was no fun.

*

"I need to make a call, check in with the others."

She'd been pretty much non-verbal after they'd left the school, and he'd taken her to a bar he'd been frequenting since he'd been able to escape his wheelchair. It was close to the mansion and accessible by back streets, so he figured the chances of them being spotted by the old bill en route were pretty slim. Buffy had raised her eyebrows when he'd led her in but followed when he'd insisted on working out the conditions of their little truce before they went any further.

He jerked his head toward the rear of the building. "Pay phones over there by the loos."

She turned without an acknowledgement, and he watched her walk away, admiring the view. He couldn't believe her mother let her leave the house kitted out like that. The pants alone should have come with a warning label. The way they curved around her ass gave new meaning to the word provocative. Women did not dress like that in his day. He thanked whatever lucky star allowed him to have survived this long. Progress was a very good thing indeed.

He walked to the bar and ordered. Just when he got to thinking maybe she was planning to ditch him, she reappeared, arms folded tightly across her chest.

"You can't honestly think we're going to sit here and have a beer while Angel's doing whatever he's doing to Giles." Her tone suggested he officially qualified as the biggest git on the planet.

"You're a little tightly wound, Slayer. Just have a taste while we chat. We need to talk terms, you and me." He hooked a foot around a leg of the stool next to his and pulled it out. "Besides, state you're in, you're not exactly ready to fight Lover Boy right this very minute, are you?"

She sighed and sat. "Fine, if it gets us one step closer to stopping Angel." She hesitated a moment, then grabbed the sweating glass on the bar and drained half of it in a single gulp. She pulled a face. "Yeeuch. There's something wrong with it. I think it's bad."

He sipped, raised an eyebrow. "No, that's how it's supposed to taste."

"And people drink beer why?" Her eyes suddenly narrowed, and he could see the dismay on her face. "You didn't put anything in it, did you?"

He sighed. "Slayer, I just drank some of it myself. It's not drugged, pet. Not my style." He lifted the glass, set it on the inside rim of the counter and signaled. "How about a rum and Coke, then?" Sounded like the kind of girly drink she'd go for.

"Diet," Buffy corrected automatically. At least some color was finally coming back to her face. She looked around the room. "You're sure none of Angel's people will show up?"

He shrugged. "Never seen one here before. And I imagine they're sticking pretty close to the mansion tonight, what with the scheduled apocalypse and all, unless they think they need something else for the ritual."

"Yeah." She nodded her thanks to the bartender as he set her drink in front of her and took a sip. "Any thoughts on how we go about stopping them?"

"I figure it's pretty simple, really. When we finish up our dealings here, I go back and act the good little soldier, try to keep your watcher alive." He didn't care about her watcher one bit, of course, but he knew he'd need a bargaining chip for the next part of his proposal. "When you show up, we jump Angel, kill him good and proper. Then me and Dru leave town. Simple as that."

Buffy practically spit out her straw. "No. No way. Drusilla doesn't walk. Not after Kendra."

_And not after Angel._ He could practically hear the unspoken thought hanging in the air between them. He could understand her anger—hell, he'd flirted with the idea of killing the both of them himself; what self-respecting vampire wouldn't?—but, dammit, the slayer didn't get to make all of the rules here. "There's no deal without Dru. I promise I'll take her away, and you'll never see either of us again."

He could tell she didn't like her chances of freeing her watcher and stopping Angel by herself. She sighed, churned the ice in her glass with the end of her straw. "I _ever_ see you or her—"

"You won't. Believe me when I say I've had a bellyful of this damn burg."

She sucked in the last of her cola. "I'm beginning to feel the same way myself," she answered softly.

How'd she finish that drink so damn fast, and where was the accompanying liquid courage? "Come on now, Slayer. Buck up."

Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me for having a little trouble dealing. What's the worst thing that happened to _you_ today? You didn't get to eat somebody? Poor Spikey." Her words dripped with sarcasm. "You can shrug off Drusilla's infidelities with a cool, foamy beer? Good for you. Guess you've had, what, a hundred years of practice?"

He stilled, a search of his pockets for cigarettes now abandoned. "Watch it, pet."

"That observation doesn't hurt, does it?" she asked in mock surprise. "Surely you're used to the fact that Drusilla's a big ho by now."

"Not another word, Slayer," he growled. His hand tightened around his glass, and he started to count to ten. He made it as far as four. "Hurts every time, as a matter of fact." Damn. He hadn't meant to say that aloud.

When she spoke again, she sounded deflated, stripped of the bravado she'd injected into her taunts. "Why do you go back to her, then, or let her come back to you?"

"Not much choice for me where Dru's concerned," he answered. "Just the way we are, the way I am. Never learned how to let go, I guess."

Christ, he was feeling mightily sorry for himself. So much so that he was having a bleeding heart-to-heart with the slayer. He'd laugh at what surely qualified as one of the more flagrant violations of the natural order except he seemed to have lost his sense of humor right about the time Dru got her daddy back.

"Apparently I'm about to get the ultimate crash course in moving on. I'll drop you a postcard, let you know how it's done." She met his eyes and then glanced over his shoulder.

Was he supposed to say something along the lines of a pep talk? The idea of acting as stand-in watcher struck him as absurd.

Buffy stood abruptly. Or rather, she rose, swayed unsteadily on her feet, and jammed the cap she'd been wearing earlier down over his head.

Oh, fuck. The slayer was drunk. He didn't figure her for such a lightweight. He thought all American teens were champion drinkers. What about those endless binge drinking statistics the papers were always prattling on about?

He tugged on her sleeve. "Outside. You need a bit of air."

He threw a few bills on the counter and started to push her toward the bar's side door, but she resisted and propelled them both instead to the tiny area next to the jukebox that served as the dance floor.

He gaped at her as she threaded her arms under his coat and began swaying, resting her cheek on his shoulder and keeping his head turned away from the bar.

"Slayer, have you lost your mind, or are you just thoroughly pissed?"

"I'm not drunk or crazy, you idiot," she hissed. "Vampire. Just walked in. Another one of Angel's flunkies?"

A sidelong glimpse of the bar's newest patron told him he knew this one he knew by name. Hard-drinking Irish vamp named Sean. The fanatics tended to make a rather more significant impression than your general run-of-the-mill minions, and this guy just so happened to see himself as one of Angel's chief acolytes. A real go-getter, this one. Shit.

"Yeah, he's one of Angel's." What the hell was she doing with her hands back there? Whatever it was made it hard to concentrate.

"Think he knows anything useful, about the ritual?"

"It's possible. He's more a confidant of Angel's than I am these days."

"You can hear what he's saying, right?"

"If you'd shut up for two seconds I can," he replied, exasperated.

"Let me know if—" He heard her breath catch. "Oh, God, he's looking in this direction. I think he might recognize one of us." She glanced up. "Quick, we need a distraction."

"What do you suggest, pet?"

He was still planning his move—he was leaning heavily in the direction of dragging the guy out back, beating the shit out of him, and then ripping his head off and wondered if that technically qualified as a "distraction"—when she took his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his.

He'd forgotten what it was to have a warm, non-struggling girl in his arms. Hell, who was he kidding? His intimate experiences with the living while he could be counted as one of their number was rather limited. He certainly didn't remember this feeling.

He had to hand it to her; she was putting on one hell of a show. He wondered what _that_ was about. Who exactly was she trying to distract, and since when did the concept of distraction involve drawing the eye of everyone in the place? He dimly thought he heard a catcall or two, caught a glimpse of the knowing smirks from the bar's patrons before they returned to their drinks. Even Sean got bored with gawking after a moment and turned back to the counter.

It was the air in his mouth that was strange, he decided, so much as he was capable of engaging in rational thought, what with his brain and, well, _other parts_ sort of shorting out at her touch. Her breath made him feel as though he had to breathe, too, and soon the two of them were gasping together as they moved on the dance floor.

A hazy thought surfaced: probably the only thing better than killing a slayer was fucking one.

He'd considered it before, of course. Not so much with the Chinese girl, although he'd have happily participated if the opportunity had presented itself. But that New York slayer? God knows he'd have liked to have given that one a ride. What with the attitude and the power and the oozing of sexual energy, she'd have made a hell of a go, no doubt about it. This girl had a touch of the second's style, which no doubt explained the electrical storm she was setting off in his body.

Buffy was the one who broke the kiss, and he couldn't read her expression as she avoided his eyes. Was that guilt? Surprise? Confusion? She put her head back on his shoulder and then ventured a look in the direction of the bar.

"I think it worked," she said, a little breathlessly. "He's not looking this way anymore."

"Thanks for the tonsillectomy, Slayer."

She ignored him. "What's he saying?"

He closed his eyes, shut out the distractions around him as best he could. Of course, the biggest distraction in the place was still wrapped around him. "He's telling the bartender that he's celebrating. Big night tonight." He listened for another moment. "That's it, pet. Just pleasantries now."

She broke apart from him at last. "How about I draw him outside, and we ask him a few pointed questions about Angel's plans?"

"Works for me. Sure he'll follow you? Seems pretty committed to his whiskey."

She merely stared at him. "I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

He watched her strut past Sean's place at the bar, catch his eye, and hesitate just a moment before sauntering out the door.

Yeah, that would do it. Did do it, from the looks of things.

By the time Spike made it outdoors himself, the two had clearly gotten past the introductory portion of the proceedings. Sean was in game-face when he turned to acknowledge Spike's arrival.

"William the Bloody?" Sean snorted derisively. "Palling around with the slayer? Where is your loyalty to Angelus, the Order?"

"I'm loyal to one person – me," Spike responded. "That's your problem, mate. You're not a leader. You're just a sheep."

"Me? I've got a problem?" Sean's tone was incredulous. "I'm not the one willing to be practically mounted by a slayer in public."

"Hey! There was no mounting, practical or otherwise," Buffy broke in. "That was purely diversionary."

Sean ignored her. "You're a disgrace to our kind," he said to Spike.

Spike jabbed a finger in his chest. "Shut your gob, you."

"No worries there." Sean was defiant. "The watcher hasn't talked yet, but even if there was something to know, you'd not be hearing it from me. Angelus will find a way to awaken Acathla, and then the both of you will get yours."

"You know, I'm thinking he's got nothing useful to tell us after all," Buffy said. "All talk, no information. Big Bad, blah blah, scary death, blah blah. Totally useless."

"Yeah, I'm starting to conclude that myself." Spike gave the vampire a shove into the wall. "Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?"

She bent, retrieved a broken piece of discarded barstool next to the Dumpster. "I'll take care of it. There's a reason they call me the Chosen One, you know."

Sean smiled. "Go ahead. End me if you want. But you'll never bring yourself to kill Angelus, and everybody knows it. You're not strong enough." He shook free of Spike's grasp and punched Buffy in the face, sending her reeling backward. "Or maybe I'll get to kill a slayer myself. Two for the Order in one night."

Spike recovered and headbutted the other vampire while Buffy flanked them and darted in for a quick dusting.

"Or not," Buffy said, dabbing at a bit of blood on her lip. "Just what I needed. A good warm-up slay."

Spike found and lit a cigarette, took a long drag. "Mind if I ask what was all that in there, Slayer? Was more than just a diversion. You knew it didn't make sense to let Sean live, knowing we'd have to take him out later, so why bother with the ruse?"

"I thought maybe we could overhear something, some piece of info you missed while you were mooning over your cheating girlfriend," she retorted defensively. "Why? What are you trying to suggest?"

His thoughts on the subject suddenly coalesced into a theory. "Wanted one last undead kiss, didn't you? To remind you of Angel?" He blew out a steady stream of smoke. "Fancied a little game of make-believe, I'd wager. Suppose that explains why I could feel your heart running like a triphammer."

"Okay, yes, maybe I _was_ thinking of Angel," she shot back. "And you were thinking of Drusilla, right? I could feel a little something of yours making its presence known, too, you know."

He cocked an eyebrow. "'Little'?"

"Full of yourself much?" She rolled her eyes. "God, how can anyone stand you?"

"My charm and good looks have nearly universal appeal." He rubbed out his cigarette beneath his boot.

"I really hate you, you know. As far as I'm concerned, this whole thing never happened."

"Fine with me. I've got a reputation to protect. In the meantime, we've got work to do, yeah?" Two could play at this game. He wasn't sure he could suss out his own feelings about whatever had transpired inside; he sure the hell couldn't guess what was going on inside her head.

But he could sense she did need one more harsh truth. "Your boyfriend's gone. You'd best not be counting on a last-minute miracle, because it's just not gonna happen. You do know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." It sounded as though it was sinking in at last. "I really am going to have to kill him."

"Sooner you realize that, pet, the better it'll be for you."

She straightened her shoulders and drew herself up into he was starting to think of as her "Steely Slayer Resolve" pose. "Get back to the mansion, do what you can for Giles." She turned away. "And be ready when I make my move."

***

He and Dru were about thirty minutes outside of town before it occurred to him that she must have done it after all, taken out Angel or Acathla or both. He supposed he should have known she'd pick herself up off the floor and find a way to keep fighting. If there was one thing he'd learned, it was that she really was pretty damn impressive.

And what that meant, of course, was that he wasn't quite done with her. Promise or no, he'd be back. Not right away, of course. He'd sort Dru out, which was bound to take some time, as he didn't imagine she'd be eager to forgive him for turning on Angel. That was fine with him. It just so happened he didn't intend to overlook her transgressions easily, either. All part of the fun of making up, really. But they would get themselves back to rights at some point, and then he'd return to Sunnydale, to unfinished business.

What was it Angel had said? To kill this girl you had to love her? No way that was happening, of course, but he did know her now; hell, he'd even managed to secure an invite to her house. He'd also acquired an interesting combination of enmity and arousal and familiarity, and all of that was bound to be important somewhere down the road.

He couldn't see the future the way Dru did, but something told him he wasn't done dancing with this slayer just yet.


End file.
